


Litost

by Jominerva



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Delusional John, Depressed John, John POV, John-centric, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jominerva/pseuds/Jominerva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The closest definition is a state of agony and torment created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Litost

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from really. Just felt like writing some angst to get rid of some Reichenfeels and this happened. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Feel free to leave kudos or a comment if you liked it!

John can remember in detail the day he fell. He'd spread his arms out like an angel preparing to take flight, and for a moment John almost believed he would. But then he leaned forward and gravity took hold, and all John had done was stand helpless on the pavement and watch while his best friend fell to Earth like an angel fallen from grace.

The day Sherlock Holmes fell a part of John Watson died with him.

Now John's life is enveloped in an all-encompassing grey haze. He drifts from home to work and back again, only breaking his pattern to stop by Tesco and buy food he will end up throwing in the rubbish bin later that week. At night he dreams of Sherlock. Nightmares of the war have been replaced with haunting memories of playful banter and experiments gone wrong, of chases through London and the more than occasional social faux pas.

In his dreams Sherlock is still there, experimenting, deducing, _living_. Every now and then he will look up from his experiment and flash John a warm smile, and John's heart melts in his chest. In his dreams John smiles back, lays a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. In his dreams Sherlock turns his head and kisses him back, then rises from his seat and grabs his hands to pull him into the bedroom. Their bedroom. In his dreams Sherlock lays John down on satin sheets and presses a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. The pale light seeping in through the window gives Sherlock's already unnatural beauty an ethereal quality, and John is speechless at the sight of the Adonis hovering over him.

In his dreams John tells Sherlock he's beautiful, stunning, perfect. His lips form the words "I love you" but the sound gets caught in his throat and he chokes on the sentiment. The dreams never go any further than that.

After six months of living in eternal darkness and failing to move on from the death of the man John had loved and never told, missed and could never hold, he began seeing his therapist again. Looking back John doesn't understand why he thought therapy could help him. It hadn't helped him before, and it certainly wasn't helping him now. He quit again after only two months. After the army the only thing capable of bringing the light back to John Watson's eyes was Sherlock Holmes, and the closest John can get to him now is standing at his grave.

On the anniversary of Sherlock's fall John skips work to visit his grave. The air is cold and John feels it from the moment he steps outside his flat, but he feels unnaturally cold standing before Sherlock's tombstone. He stares at the name carved into the stone slab. That is what the great Sherlock Holmes has been reduced to: a name. A brilliant man, a brilliant life, now vanished from the Earth and hidden beneath the ground. To everyone else Sherlock is either remembered as the fraud detective who threw himself off a rooftop, or he isn't remembered at all. John remembers him as the gorgeous madman who kept him up all hours of the night with his violin playing only to chastise him for being so sleepy on cases. To him, Sherlock Holmes was the wisest man he'd ever known, and the most brilliant, clueless bastard to walk the Earth.

He places a trembling hand on the cold stone grave. He wishes he were feeling cool, marble skin instead. Tears well up in his eyes and he casts a furtive glance around to make sure no one catches him in this moment of weakness and vulnerability. His hand clenches when he spots a figure standing half-hidden behind a tree. His heart stops when he notices the dark curls and pale skin. The gentle breeze ruffles his hair and blows his trench coat sideways. He looks exactly how he did standing on top of St. Bart's that fateful day.

"Sherlock?" John calls out, his heart swelling with hope. His breath becomes shallow and his palms are sweaty, itching with the urge to reach out and touch that face. Right before he punches it. "What the hell, Sherlock?" he shouts, taking a step towards him. Sherlock's eyes widen and his lips part to speak.

John blinks and Sherlock is gone.

His mouth is hanging open as he spins around, eyes frantically searching for the brooding figure. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps John shouldn't have stopped seeing his therapist. He turns back to the tombstone and heaves a heavy sigh. Adrenaline is still surging through his veins and John can find no outlet for this sudden onset of emotion. His shoulders slump and he lets his chin fall down to meet his chest. Despite his efforts, several tears escape John's eyes and make salty trails down the skin of his cheeks. He wipes them away with a hand that has been balled into a fist, then turns and walks away.

John decides to go into work that day, figuring it's better late than never. Besides, he needs something to distract him from what he has just "seen" at the graveyard. On his way to his office he passes the new nurse and she flashes him a smile. If John remembers correctly her name is Mary. He doesn't know much else about her.

"Hello John," she says. "Are you okay? You seem a bit ..." she trails off and makes a face that almost makes John want to smile. She looks concerned, and John figures she has a right to. He can only imagine what he looks like at the moment. He doesn't tell her he's just seen his dead best friend while visiting his grave and is shaken because of it. He doesn't tell her that for a split second be believed Sherlock Holmes had come back to him, and is now dealing with the crippling disappointment and harsh reality that no, that would need happen. Instead he offers her a weak smile and says he's alright. He'll be fine. Mary smiles at him and reaches out to touch John's arm and he feels as though he's been burned. It's been so long since someone touched him.

He thanks her for her concern and continues on to his office. He does paperwork. He sees patients. It's all painfully dull. He imagines Sherlock rolling his eyes and flopping down dramatically onto the examination table, shooting holes into the anatomy charts on the walls. He doesn't realize he's been smiling until he remembers that will never happen. He will never see Sherlock again, unless another apparition chooses to make an appearance. John chooses to take a cab home because his leg is bothering him. He knows the injury isn't real but he can't do anything about it. He limps when he misses Sherlock. He limps often now. John returns to an empty flat. It's cold and small, and smells faintly of mildew, but the rent is cheap and it's not Baker Street. He'd tried to remain but every inch of the flat reminded him of Sherlock, and after only a month he couldn't take it. John can't even remember the last time he'd stepped foot in 221B.

Actually he can. It was about a month after Sherlock's fall. John remembers the look on Mrs. Hudson's face when he said goodbye. He remembers promising to call. John hasn't spoken to Mrs. Hudson since that day. He feels guilty, but it's just so hard to pick up the phone. The longer he'd put it off the harder it got, and now John was sure he'd never see her warm smile or hear her sweet comforting voice ever again.

There is a bottle of sleeping pills on his bedside table. He bought them several weeks ago. Each night before John goes to bed he spends an indeterminable amount of time staring at them before deciding no, he's not there yet, and going to bed leaving the bottle unopened.

That night John dreams that the Sherlock he saw in the graveyard was real. His windblown hair and tight shirt make his heart stop before it begins beating in triple time. He feels his blood boiling in his veins, he feels the anger bubbling up inside of him. He feels relief, giddiness, joy. He approaches Sherlock calmly, managing to keep a straight face as he stares up into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's eyes are shining as they stare down at him, and there is a smile on his lips. John doesn't smile back. His eyes narrow and his mouth twists into a frown. There is only enough time for a look of confusion to cross over Sherlock's features before John's fist connects with his jaw.

Sherlock lies on the ground, sputtering and pressing a hand to where John has just punched him. His eyes are wide and worried, and instantly John feels terrible. Out of all the ways to handle his best friend coming back from the dead, he was sure he could have done better. He holds a hand out to Sherlock, and he takes it, watching John carefully after he helps him to his feet.

"Sorry," John says, moving Sherlock's hand out of the way to inspect his jaw. There is no cut, but he knows Sherlock has got to be in pain. His eyes don't show it though, and he simply stares back at John. "I ... " John tries and fails to speak to him. To finally have Sherlock standing before him after all this time is overwhelming.

Sherlock reaches a hand out, but hesitates, leaving it hanging in the air beside John's cheek. He closes his eyes and leans into Sherlock's touch, warm and gentle on his skin.

"Why did you do it?" When John receives no answer he opens his eyes. Sherlock's are cast downward. John grabs his hand and removes it from his face. Sherlock's eyes meet his and he gives him a smile. "It's okay if you don't tell me now, I suppose. But you will tell me." Sherlock bites his lip and nods, and right then it's good enough for John. He's so happy he could cry, but of course he won't. Ignoring the fact that he has already cried at Sherlock's grave, showing emotions is not something John Watson does.

"Sherlock I ... " John wants to meet Sherlock's inquisitive gaze, but he already feels too exposed. He can't add Sherlock's penetrating stare into the mix. He wants to tell him everything he's realized during his absence. John wants to tell Sherlock that he never wants to feel that heartbreaking loss again, that he'll never even let Sherlock out of his sight for more than several hours. He wants to tell Sherlock he loves him more than he thought was possible, but the words die in his throat and his mouth stays shut.

When John awakes the next morning the room is eerily cold. The wind swirls around him and burns the skin on the tip of his nose as he walks to work. He sees patients, more patients than usual he notes, and fills out paperwork. He returns home and stares at his laptop screen for several hours before retiring to bed to stare at his pills. When he dreams that night he dreams that Sherlock is experimenting once again. It is a dream John has often had, one that ends with Sherlock and himself in bed, with him trying and failing to tell Sherlock he loves him.

John starts to take longer shifts at the surgery. Free time is no longer of importance to him now that he has no way to spend it, or someone to spend it with. After all the adrenaline-filled cases and crime scenes the idea of simply spending an afternoon at the park makes John's stomach turn. He figures it's better this way. He takes the shifts that no one wants to they can go out and live their lives. Just because John has no livelihood doesn't mean no one else should.

After a particularly long and trying day John makes up his mind to go see Sherlock again. Perhaps if he returns to his grave the figure might appear again. John tries not to dwell on the fact that he's actually hoping to see a ghost at a graveyard. He stands for an hour in front of Sherlock's tombstone but nothing happens. He would have stayed longer, but it starts to rain. None of the cabs will stop for him so John has to ride the tube home. It somehow seems more crowded than usual and he has to shove his way into the car to ride. He reaches up and grips the overhead rail tightly. His shoulder aches in protest but John does not let his pain show. He takes a look around at the people surrounding him. There is a young woman wearing too much make up standing very close to a gentleman dressed smartly in what appears to be a tailored suit. An older woman is sitting down beside one of the doors, holding a small child in her lap. John thinks that if Sherlock were here he would be deducing everyone's life story. He could see the things John couldn't. All John saw were people. Sherlock saw their stories. John began to wonder what Sherlock would have deduced about him in that moment, lonely and heartbroken, riding the rube home after a disappointing graveyard visit.

John turns his head the other way and catches sight of a mop of dark curls above the crowd. His eyes drift down until he can see the coat collar. He waits for the figure to turn around, and when it does John almost laughs out loud.

Sherlock stares back at him, amused, but doesn't make any effort to communicate. John isn't so sure he would be able to anyway. The carriage was terribly crowded and he was sure it would be impossible to hear him from where he was standing. He starts to raise a hand in greeting but stops himself. Sherlock isn't really there. He would be waving at no one. His hand returns to its place at John's side and he looks away. When his eyes drift back to where Sherlock was standing he is gone. John doesn't look away from the spot he'd been until it comes time for him to get off. He goes to sleep that night wondering if he will see Sherlock again. He doesn't have a dream, or if he does he doesn't remember it.

The next few weeks pass by without event. John sticks to his routine of working during the day, and staring at the bottle of pills each night. Once he realizes it's been nearly a week since he last ate John decides to go to Tesco. The weather has been colder than usual so John puts on a jumper over his shirt before grabbing his jacket. He stopped wearing jumpers a long time ago because they reminded him too much of Sherlock. Each time he touched the soft fabric of any of them he could hear Sherlock's voice in his mind criticising his fashion choices. Today he chooses to wear a striped jumper, one Sherlock had commented on numerous times. None of the comments had been rude or offensive, so John liked to think it was Sherlock's favourite of his jumpers.

John peruses each aisle, but he is unable to find anything appetising. Eating is simply a way to ensure survival, and seeing as how John isn't too keen on being alive at the moment, food has lost all appeal. He grabs a bag of crisps and turns it over in his hands before turning to go in search of a beverage to go with the snack he won't eat and freezes.

Sherlock stands at the end of the aisle. There is a small smile on his face and his eyes continue to dart between John's face and the bag in his hands. Though John is still taken aback at the sight of him, he is not completely blindsided by Sherlock, and does not respond nearly as passionately as he had the first time. He knows he probably shouldn't but he decides to indulge in this delusion. It's been so long since he's seen Sherlock. At this point he'll take what he can get. He walks towards Sherlock with a smile on his face and holds up the bag.

"What do you think? Good choice?" Sherlock doesn't speak, but smiles and nods his head. John gives a curt nod in response. "Right then, it's decided." He tucks the bag under his arm and starts to walk. Sherlock walks beside him. For a moment John allows himself to become lost in this fantasy. He imagines that Sherlock really is beside him and that they are doing the shopping together, like a normal couple. He turns and smiles at Sherlock, who smiles back and remains silent. John can only imagine what he looks like smiling at thin air, but he doesn't care. He has Sherlock back, in a way.

Sherlock remains with John as he continues to shop. John ends up grabbing a telly dinner in addition to his crisps and almost considers grabbing some sweets. Then he catches Sherlock's eye and sees the disapproving look, and places them back on the shelf.

When John gets to the register Sherlock is gone. On his way out of the store John looks down at the groceries in his hands and is disgusted at the idea of eating any of the food he's just bought. When he returns to his flat he places everything in the fridge whether it's supposed to be there or not. He doesn't stare at the pills nearly as long as he usually does before pulling the sheets up to his chin and closing his eyes.

John dreams of Sherlock back in Baker Street, sitting at the kitchen table while John slaves over a hot stove. He prepares a three course meal for the two of them, and Sherlock barely eats any of the first course.

When John arrives at work the next day he runs into Mary again. He is in a slightly better mood than he was the last time he saw her, and she seems to notice.

"John, you're looking well today."

"Thanks. I'm feeling well I suppose." They stand in silence for several moments, awkwardly shifting their feet and clearing their throats. John is about to make an excuse to leave when Mary reaches out and grabs him. John's eyes are glued to her delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist.

"Listen, John. I know I haven't been working here for long, and though I've made friends with nearly everyone here ... I feel like I know nothing about you."

"That's because you don't," John says, and it sounds much harsher than he means it to. "I mean ... yeah, I understand why." Mary smiles and her grip tightens.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go out for drinks or something sometime?" John knows he's being asked out on a date and he wants to say no, but he can't think of a valid reason to decline. It's not like he has any plans that would interfere, and he is not currently in a relationship; Being in love with your dead best friend probably doesn't count. Mary is also not an unattractive woman. In fact John finds her smile rather charming, and her eyes are bright and friendly. He smiles, but he feels his heart sinking into his stomach as he nods his head.

"Sure, that sounds great." Mary's smile brightens, and she bites her bottom lip. John realizes she is in fact incredibly attractive, and tries to feel lucky that this beautiful woman is interested in him. They agree to go out after work that Friday, and when John finally makes it to his office he feels like he's suffocating. He feels as if he's cheating on Sherlock, as if that's even possible. Not only is Sherlock no longer living, but their relationship was never romantic. John himself hadn't even realized his own feelings for the detective until he was sitting in the front row at his funeral. How could going out with Mary feel so incredibly wrong?

By the time Friday comes around John still does not have an answer. He holds the door for Mary and pulls out her chair. They eat and talk and the evening is overall an enjoyable one. It's the best John has felt in such a long time. He begins to think that maybe this is what he needs to move on. Mary is smart, funny, beautiful, and interested in him. John wonders how interested she would be when she finally uncovers all the baggage John is carrying with him. Could she find a way to love a man who is already in love with another? Surely she could feel secure with the knowledge that that love would never, could never, be reciprocated. The man he wanted to give his heart to was no longer able to receive it.

John walks Mary to her flat, and gives her a hug instead of a goodnight kiss. John closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them Sherlock is standing at the end of the street. John stares as Sherlock frowns and walks away, and every good feeling instantly flees from John. He pulls away and doesn't look Mary in the eyes as he says goodnight. John ignores the pain in his leg and walks home with his head down. That night he dreams that Sherlock is angry with him. He won't speak, won't even look at John. He promises never to do whatever it was that upset him so, but it doesn't work. Sherlock is still mad at him when he wakes up.

That weekend John goes for a walk and sees Sherlock twice. The first time is at the park. Sherlock is sitting on a bench with a sour look on his face as he watches John walk past him. The next time John sees Sherlock is it merely in passing, on his way back home. Sherlock strolled right by him without a second glance, fading from view when John turned to go after him. Before John goes to bed he vows to never go on another date, and in his dream Sherlock takes him out to dinner. They go to Angelo's.

Mary is extra friendly to John the next time she sees him. John is unnaturally cold, and Mary gets the hint. John feels terrible when he sees the smile drop from her face, but the look Sherlock gave him when he found him sitting in his office makes up for it ... almost.

The days begin to blur together and each night John stares at the pills longer and longer. One night he even picks up the bottle, but doesn't open it. He simply shakes it, listening to the rattle of the pills inside, then places it back onto the night stand. He realizes it wouldn't even do him any good to take them in bed if he wanted to he found. He lives alone, and is known to skip a day of work here or there. No one questions him; They all understand that sometimes it's just too hard to get out of bed in the morning. He's been staying home more and more, only showing up to work maybe three times a week. He works enough to be able to pay for the one room flat he spends most of his time in, but no more.

John sees Sherlock on a weekly basis. Any time he leaves his house he sees Sherlock. It's starting to become the only reason he does get out of bed. The threat of homelessness is one thing, but John has grown rather attached to this new Sherlock of his. If he is alone when he sees him, he'll speak. Sherlock never speaks back, but he communicates through facial expressions and vague hand gestures. He'll sit in John's office and listen to him complain about the dreariness of his job. He'll smile when John makes a rude comment about a patient he's just seen, and he'll glare any time John mentions Mary. They are back on friendly terms, and only that, but every now and then John gets a longing feeling and wonders if he made the right choice in not pursuing her.

Once he comes close to trying again, but the words die on his lips the moment he opens his mouth. Instead of ask her if she would like to see a movie with him, John instead compliments her new hairstyle and keeps walking. John realizes he can't love anyone else. He doesn't want to. The next day, rather than spend the evening inside a darkened movie theatre with his arm around a gorgeous blonde, John was sitting on the ground with his back resting against Sherlock's tombstone. He closes his eyes and breathes in the earthy scent around him. He's almost forgotten how Sherlock smelled by now, after going nearly two years without smelling it.

By the time John leaves it is dark outside. The streetlights illuminate only sections of the pavement he walks down, and each time he walks through a lit section his vision goes spotty. He keeps his head down and keeps his hands in his pockets as he walks. His pace is slow, unhurried. He has nowhere to be. The only place he wants to be anymore is with Sherlock, but it is getting cold and John isn't dressed warm enough to spend the night in the graveyard. He's done it several times before, each time wrapped up in so many layers he could probably have been mistaken for a boulder beside Sherlock's grave.

John has difficulty unlocking the door to his flat because his hands are shaking. He knows he should have worn gloves but he's been unable to find his for the past month. He is wondering whether or not he should invest in some new ones when he closes the door and turns the light on.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room. He is dressed as impeccably as always, though his clothes seem a bit ill-fitting. They look almost too big for him. John stares at Sherlock's face and notices it is thinner than usual. His eyes look tired and his curls are wet. He looks freshly showered ... And freshly shaven, yet the rest of him looks timid and weary, and John blinks at him, wondering why this Sherlock looks so different from the man he remembers and has brought back to life with his delusions. Sherlock has never shown up in his flat before, but John figured it was only a matter of time. Still, he is a bit surprised to see him standing in front of him with his hands in his pockets.

"Oh," he says. "Hello." John keeps his eyes on Sherlock while he reaches over to place his keys on the table beside the door. Sherlock stares at him strangely, his facial expression shifting from one of nervousness to confusion.

"John?"

He hesitates in his movements. That voice sounds too real, but he knows it can't be. Sherlock Holmes died almost two years ago. John still had the emotional scars to prove it. He lets the keys fall from his hand onto the polished wood surface of the table, and tilts his head. He takes a long look at the Sherlock standing in front of him. He looks similar enough to the Sherlock John had grown used to, but he does look so tired, and incredibly confused. And he spoke. Sherlock never speaks.

Hope begins to swell in John's chest, much like it had when he first saw Sherlock at his own grave. His palms are sweaty and he's struggling to breathe.

"Why can you talk?" John hadn't thought it possible for Sherlock to look more confused than he did after John's initial greeting, but he somehow managed to. His jaw had dropped and John had never seen his eyes so wide. He looked dumbfounded, and John wondered if he would speak again or had been stunned into silence. John hoped desperately he hadn't been. He had missed Sherlock's voice dearly.

"What do you mean, John?" John closed his eyes and allowed Sherlock's voice to wash over him. The dulcet sound seeped into his pores and soothed him from the inside out. He could feel Sherlock's voice wrap around him and gave into the sensation of elation that came over him when he heard his name pronounced. When he opened his eyes Sherlock was still there, and John didn't try to hide how happy he was. If he hadn't already John knew he was going mad, but he didn't care one bit because Sherlock had just said his name. He continued to smile as he removed his coat and walked closer to Sherlock. Oddly enough, he felt warmer rather than colder the closer he got.

"You don't usually talk, you know. Every time you pop up you're silent." He throws his coat to the side and stands directly in front of Sherlock, staring up at him. A strong and familiar scent fills his senses and his vision almost goes black. He reaches a hand up towards Sherlock's face, but pauses. Sherlock stays still, doesn't move his head to meet John's hand. He does every other time John does this. He never speaks, he never smells like this, he always moves to meet John's touch. John snatches his hand away as if he's been stung, and shakes his head. "No."

"John-"

"What is this?!" John shouts, his mind failing to comprehend what is standing before him. "You're not real! I know you're not! So why is this happening?"

"John ... please, forgive me." Sherlock takes a step forward, and John can hear his foot land on the carpet. He can feel the warmth that radiates from Sherlock's body. He can smell him again. His head begins swimming and he struggles to find words to say. Nothing seems to be appropriate for what he's feeling or thinking.

"You're not real," he finally settles on saying. Sherlock laughs, low and without humour, and smiles sadly at John.

"I can assure you John, I am very real."

John's mind comes to a screeching halt. He feels all of the air leave his body and his knees buckle beneath him. Sherlock reaches out and John is engulfed in a pair of long arms and he is surprised he manages not to lose consciousness. He grabs onto Sherlock and he holds on for dear life. This isn't real. This can't be happening. John knows he will soon open his eyes and Sherlock will be gone again, but he feels so warm and solid in his arms John can't be sure.

He feels his body shaking, and he realizes he's crying silently while Sherlock strokes his back gently. The warm hand caressing his spine cannot be mistaken for anything but real. The body pressed against him is firm, if a bit too thin. In fact, it's a lot too thin, but John won't comment on that now. He's just happy to have Sherlock's skeletal form in his arms. He pulls back, but keeps a hand on Sherlock's arm. Right now he needs the confirmation that Sherlock is in fact alive and breathing and standing in front of him.

"So I'm not delusional," he says "This isn't a dream is it?" Sherlock shakes his head and reaches out to stroke the side of John's face.

"No John," he says softly. "This isn't a dream."

"Because I've been through this before-"

"John, I know this must be hard for you. I owe you a thousand apologies, and you will receive them in due time." Sherlock's thumb moves to trace along John's bottom lip, and the atmosphere in the room shifts. John's face is mere centimetres from Sherlock's. He can feel each exhale fanning out across his cheeks. Sherlock seems to notice their close proximity the same tie John does. He catches the shift in Sherlock's eyes and the way his breath hitches in the back of his throat. He sees the way Sherlock's eyes go from amused and relieved to something else entirely, and it barely registers that the look he has just seen was love before a pair of lips are sealed over his.

The kiss is brutal with teeth clashing and noses bumping, but underneath their fevered actions there is a sweetness underlying every slide of Sherlock's lips against John's, the way Sherlock uses his tongue to caress the inside of John's mouth much like his hand is caressing his cheek. John's hand finds it way to Sherlock's hair, and his initial suspicions that it was recently washed are confirmed. His other hand is firmly gripping Sherlock's bicep and he knows it must be uncomfortable for Sherlock. Still, John can't bring himself to let go. This is still too fragile a moment. He still needs the reassurance.

"Are you sure this isn't a dream?" he asks when they part. Sherlock laughs then, and John laughs along with him He laughs because he can't believe this. He has his best friend back ... and even more if that kiss was any indication. John pulls away from Sherlock and gives him a stern look, silencing his laughter.

"I swear to God, if you ever pull anything like that ever again I will kill you."

"Oh, killing me," Sherlock says, waving a hand in the air. "That's so two years ago."


End file.
